“My dear guests, my dear masked friends, my beautiful deceivers, welcome.” His voice carries even though it’s low toned, conspiratorial, intimate. He flicks his cloak back and begins to pace across the stage. Every step, every motion, is deliberate—hypnotic.
He spins to face one table, then another, then another. He points. “And yes, youareall deceivers, all tricksters—for what is a mask, if not to mislead? To hide behind? To pretend you are one thing but really, deep down, you are another.”
He turns toward Dr. Marsh’s table. “We all wear them. Every day. Figurative masks. Personas we project, shaped by the stories we choose to tell ourselves about who we are, where we come from, what our worth is, what our role is in society. The doctor’s white coat is a mask of sorts, with the stethoscope draped around the neck. When he puts that garb on, people trust him. Look up to him. He can play God.” He spins.
“The executioner of old wears a hood, and then he is allowed to take life without punishment. The soldier puts on his uniform and he—or she—becomes a licensed killer. A policeman wears his mask as a badge and a uniform, too. In this guise society permits him to take away freedom. A judge”—he paces, boots beating slowly across the wooden stage—“dons a black robe, a wig. She wears the mask of justice, ofretribution. And we permit her to punish. The librarian in her cardigan, the seductress with her scarlet lips and stilettos.”
He whirls again and his cloak flares, flashing the bloodred silk lining. The lights around the guests dim further, but the spotlight on him remains. Poppy can see only the subtle gleam of masked faces at the tables now. The ship rolls, and she reaches for her glass as it slides.
“But tonight,” Sorin declares, “as the sea rages around us, as the winds tear and test the very strength of this fine vessel, I will open doors to the secrets lurking behind your masks. Truths dark, heinous, terrible, mortifying, shameful—things many would pay great sums—or even kill—to keep locked away deep in the vaults of their souls.
“You have each chosen a facade inspired by ancient mythology. Magical creations crafted of gold, silver, bronze—of light and shadow. Of cold and warmth. Either textured or smooth. The mask you selected will tell me something aboutyou. Because tonight, the mask will not hide the truth, it shallrevealit. It will tell me what you desire the world to see, and in turn whisper what you most wish to keep hidden.
“So . . . let us begin!”
Drums rumble, and the harpist plucks her strings in a haunting melody. Silver smoke drifts across the stage.
Sorin lifts a candelabra. The flames tremble. He watches them for a beat as the smoke curls around him.
Poppy guesses the candles are fake, but the quivering flames sure look real right now. So does the dripping wax.
“Do you feel that?” Sorin almost whispers. “The vibrations beneath your feet? Even theBlack Orchidtrembles when the truth draws near, when the spirits that haunt each of you come close to me, and begin to whisper in my ear.”
He steps off the stage and starts toward Poppy’s table.
She tenses.
“You may lie to yourselves, but your body can’t keep the truth from Sorin.” He comes closer. Poppy swallows. Her own secrets suddenly loommountainous in her mind. Every muscle in her body braces. Beside her, Patrick tenses, too.
Sorin lowers his voice as he reaches them. “The hand that tightens on the glass. The heart that races when your name is called—I will ask for no volunteers. The truth always volunteers itself.”
He circles Poppy’s table.
The storm buffets the ship; theOrchidrolls. Cutlery clatters somewhere in the kitchen. Patrick steadies the candle jar on their table.
“Ah.” Sorin stops. He points at Patrick. “The Echo.”
Patrick stiffens as he realizes Sorin is addressing him. Relief quivers through Poppy—not her.
“You’ve chosen well, my friend,” Sorin says. “Smooth and beautiful features on the outside, but hollow and cavernous within. The Echo represents the nymph who loved Narcissus so deeply she lost herself. Echo was cursed to repeat only the last words spoken to her—to reflect, to echo. This mask speaks of lost identity, unrequited love, self-erasure. Behind it hides a man doomed to mirror what he believes others want him to be—to exist only as a reflection in another’s words or desires.”
Patrick shifts in his chair.
“Tell me, Sir Echo, whom do you desire to appease? Who shapes the man you try to be? A woman? A mother? Or a father, perhaps?”
Patrick remains silent.
Sorin turns to the audience. “See? The Echo has no voice of his own. He cannot answer. He echoes expectation. He who is never his authentic self.”
He turns back to Patrick. “After intermission—once you, Sir Echo, have drunk deeper in search of courage, once you’ve whispered to yourself your self-denials, told yourself it’s all a circus trick, I will pull back the deeper layers, and all will clearly see who Sir Echo truly seeks to please. Act one, my friends, is just the beginning.”
He threads his way among the tables, circling, waiting for his next victim to somehow volunteer themselves.
Poppy glances at Patrick. He sits motionless. She wants to touch his arm, to comfort him. She senses Sorin has wounded him.
He turns his silver Echo face to her. She takes it as an invitation, leans forward, and whispers softly, “You could say those things about anybody, Patrick. Everyone tries to be what they think others want.”
Sorin claps his hands loudly.
